“1-2-3…”
“Third
down and seven, ball on the Georgia 48…”
“4-5…”
“First
down after the nine-yard run…”
“6-7-8-9…”
“The
offensive line had a real strong push on that last run…”
When
you become a parent, those who have walked that path before are full of advice.
I try to listen to their suggestions even when it seems what they offer has
been shared by others to the point that it all sometimes seems to mean less
that it really does and even at times when I am stressed to the point of not really
wanting to listen to anything.
“Soak in every moment.”
“They grow up way too
fast.”
“Enjoy it while you can.”
“You’ll miss these moments”
“10-11-12-13…”
It
was right around the time when her sweet voice spoke the number thirteen that
it dawned on me I was missing out on a moment. It was a Saturday afternoon. For
a just a few minutes I was watching a college football game, engrossed in the
play-calling, the run-block assignments, the defensive scheme, the often inane
announcing. I don’t often intently watch football like this anymore, so, for a short
time I was lost again in a bit of self-indulgence. It was that voice though
along with the progression of numbers that turned my attention away from the
game on the giant glowing box on the other side of the room.
“14-15-16-17-18…”
I
have heard her count numerous times before. Sometimes when we are in the car riding
somewhere one of us is counting. Sometimes she asks me to count. Other times
she wants me to listen so I can hear her count. When she was first learning to
count, she sometimes would miss a number now and then or would reverse the
order of certain numbers. As she has practiced and become more engaged with
learning the numbers began to fall in place and in the correct order. Still,
somehow this time felt different.
“19-20-21-22-23…”
Sometime
during the afternoon she rediscovered a sheet of temporary tattoos. She became
determined that she would use the tattoos on her hand. For those unaware of
temporary tattoos most of them work when you cut them out, wet your skin then
hold the cut-out tattoo impression against your skin for around thirty seconds.
Of course thirty seconds passes by best when someone counts out loud from one
to thirty. On this Saturday, this is why she was standing in our living room
counting.
“24-25-26-27…”
She
stood with her back toward me as the countdown neared a conclusion. Her hand
rested in her mom’s hand as they had partnered to accomplish this task. As the
audio from the television faded in the background I focused even more on this
moment on an average Saturday afternoon trying to drink it all up while it
lasted.
“28-29-30”
When
the last number from her lips sounded, she excitedly pulled her hand from her
mom’s hand to see how well the tattoo process had gone. She quickly showed her
mom the new ink imprint. She then danced over to me hurriedly shoved her hand
in my direction so that I could eyeball the artistry then scurried back to her
mom so that this process could happen again.
I
leaned back in my chair. I looked at the spectrum of colors emanating from the
television set although it all just seemed like a blur. I would soon enough
focus on the game. I would once again question the play-calling, I would revel in
pride when my team put points on the board. I would fret when things on the
field would not go my way. I would do all these things as if what I did
mattered in the game’s outcome. And, in a different time when I was a different
man, such things would count much more than they do now or than they ever
should. Now, though, other things count.
“1-2-3…”
